A/N: Uh oh. New chapter fic. What have I gotten myself into.
Okay, so some background before we get into this! This is a completely AU timeline in which Jack never existed to redeem the Vessalius household. Gilbert and Vincent have spent their entire lives on the streets (hence their hideous speech patterns). Since the timeline here is different, they're not Baskervilles, so they can die just as normal people do. Oz (a normal human, WHAT), Ada, and Oscar are around (I told you this was AU) but have turned their backs on the nobility scene in favor of living more secretive lives out of the public eye.
As for Gilbert and Vincent's personalities…all the little moments we've seen of them as children in Sablier, Gilbert has been the more fiery one, and Vincent the more skittish one. And you can bet your bum I'm taking advantage of that here.
I have a feeling this story is going to rapidly spiral out of control. For all I know, Break could pop up out of the floorboards singing showtunes. Elliot and Leo could appear. Maybe even Rufus. I have no idea what's going on, but whatever it is, it's fun.
Forgive the shitty Cockney, I swear it won't last the entire story.
Shutting up now. Lyrics are "Buy the Stars" by Marina and the Diamonds.
1.
::
oh we don't own our heavens now
we only own our hell
::
The back-alleys streets of Sablier are merciless, whether it be by day or night. Here in the corners and crannies of the city where the sun shines gray at its brightest and the gutters overflow with stinking muck, only the forsaken and the ruined reside. Not a soul with the wish to remain pure dares to take a step into these alleys - that is, if fate doesn't decide to pluck such a soul up from its roots and toss them like garbage into this place, never to escape, never to rise up against their cruel destiny and become anything more than waste.
Gilbert, a wild-eyed youth of twenty-two, has long learned that it's easier to forgo such a hope from the very start. However, being something fiery and stubborn, even in the darkest of times he couldn't quite do such a thing; even now, a young man that hasn't known the warmth of a home or good food or even so much as a decent blanket since he was a tiny lad of but a few years old, there's still some hope, some shred of longing that remains within his bedraggled body that 'this too shall pass.' Tha's wot they say. This won't be forever. To 'ell wiv these streets, these damned people. To 'ell wiv fate and destiny. We're leavin' this place soon enough, Vince, believe me. Vince? Oi, open yer eyes, listen to me. Don't sleep yet. Vince?
"Jus' closin' me eyes for a wink," Vincent murmurs, hoarse and weak. The slighter brother of the two, and the sicklier, his body is so fragile that even a stiff wind could bruise him.
"Close them eyes but five winks and yer sleepin' like the dead do," Gilbert pleads with a quick, unhinged look around them, wary of straggling folk that might knife them for the clothes off their backs. The straight, vertical scar marring the corner of his bottom lip proves that the fear isn't entirely irrational, nor his brother's missing tooth, only visible when he smiles. Vincent, however, doesn't smile often enough for that.
"Chest hurts," Vincent says on a soft wheeze of breath before sputtering in a vicious cough.
"Don't sleep yet, Vince." Gilbert leans forward and wipes his brother's chin with one ratty sleeve. Another wild glance around them. No stragglers yet, but they'll come soon enough. They always do. "One more move, Vince, jus' one more move and we's out o' this alley."
"Too tired…"
Gilbert regards his brother's pale, sunken face, which remains pretty even in the midst of sickness and hunger. The dozens of long, golden braids that tumble down Vincent's shoulders are grubby with dirt and are beginning to come loose, lank and greasy as they slowly unwind. Gilbert frowns and reaches forward to touch them before stroking a smudge of dirt off of his brother's gaunt cheekbone. Vincent looks as though he tries very hard to open his eyes, but only his eyelashes flutter the barest bit before he deems it a task too exhausting to complete. Gilbert curses beneath his breath and makes careful work out of gathering his brother into a semi-standing position. "Wotcher doin'…?" Vincent's voice is brittle and thin, his body limp.
"Carryin' you on me back, o' course," Gilbert answers as he carefully hoists Vincent up. "Now put yer arms 'round me neck. Tha's it. Now you keep a good hold, go' it? Righ' sure yer bones'll break in a hundred pieces if you hits the ground."
Vincent gives a quiet hum next to Gilbert's ear that tells him he understands and holds on as best as he can, which admittedly isn't very well. Gilbert links his arms under the other's knees to keep them around his hips and takes the first few painstaking steps out of the alley. The murky sunlight is only a fraction brighter in the streets, but the faint mist of rain is more evident without the protection of the tall buildings of the alley shielding them from it. Gilbert wishes he had something to cover Vincent's head to fend it off and keep him from getting sicker, but all he finds is soggy trash littering the streets. The stares they're attracting range from feverish to vacant to hateful, but Gilbert ignores them steadfastly, focusing on the path ahead and keeping Vincent on his back. He walks in grave silence, but something in his stomach flips with panic when Vincent's grip starts to slacken. "Oi, Vince," he murmurs, trying to keep the edge of panic from sounding too obvious in his voice. His brother's nerves are so easily jostled. "Say somefin'."
"Mm?"
The sound is barely there at all, but Gilbert hears it. He gives a small smile to himself, as relieved as the situation allows for him to be. "Okay. Jus' makin' sure yer still awake."
"Mm."
"Don't you fink 'bout fallin' offa me."
"Mm…"
Vincent's arms tighten the tiniest bit around Gilbert's neck. His little brother is trying, he knows that, although the blink of a smile fades from his lips as he feels his own exhaustion starting to set in, making his body heavy and his steps toilsome. But he doesn't stop walking, not even for a moment's rest. They have a long way to go.
::
In the backyard of a small, remote townhouse in the quieter part of Sablier, twenty-three-year-old Oz Vessalius is lying on his back in the dewy grass of the garden. The rain isn't coming down as hard as he'd like, but the mist will have to do for now. He wears no coat, only a button-up shirt, vest, and pinstriped trousers that are a bit too big in the waist but too short in the legs. His feet are pale and bare as he wiggles his toes, his fingers long and elegant as they idly pull up tiny clumps of grass on either side of him. His eyes are fixed up at the sky, and his blond bangs stick to his forehead and cheeks from the faint fall of rain. His attention lies within nothing and everything all at once. All of the universe moves around and within him.
A beautiful young man - but a strange one.
From just beyond the garden wall connecting their townhouse to the neighbors', he can hear the voices of children, can feel eyes on him from over the stone barrier. Oz glances sideways at them and sees their auburn heads - twins - peeking over at him, looking dubious and put off. "What do you suppose he's doing?" the girl of the two whispers loudly.
"Don't know," the boy says. A pause. "Do you think he's summoning evil spirits?"
"What? You mean you can do that by lying in the rain in your trousers?"
"Reckon anything's possible."
The girl gasps. "Why haven't we tried that yet?"
Oz leans up on one elbow and surveys the children with wide, blinking eyes. There's a breezy laugh in his words when he says, "I can hear you, you know. Quite clearly."
The twins look at each other in shock. It lives! their eyes say.
"I do this every time it rains," Oz says simply, tilting his head to the side. "Aren't you used to it by now?"
The twins share another glance, this one a bit panicked, before looking back at Oz. The boy says in a stage whisper, "You'd better not tell our mama or papa what we were just saying!"
Oz blinks at them before a mischievous smile curls at his lips, the lucid green of his eyes flashing. "Oh? I do wonder how they would react if they knew their precious children had an interest in dark and evil spirits…especially summoning them on their own! How scandalous!"
The twins splutter in panic for a few comedic moments before nearly falling off whatever they're standing on, but grab onto the wall for support just long enough to shoot Oz some very nasty words that children certainly shouldn't be saying - until they lose their grip and disappear behind the wall, likely landing in a rosebush or shrub judging by the floofsound that breaks their fall.
Oz is laughing quietly to himself when he hears his sister Ada's voice come from the backdoor: "Oz, were you picking on the neighbor children again?"
Oz turns to look at her, and finds her still dressed in her early tea gown the color of a clementine. A thick sable cloak is draped over her shoulders, and her hair (just as blond as her older brother's) is pulled back in a loose French braid. Her sixteen years have shaped her into a lovely young woman, although just as strange as her older brother, no doubt. Oz returns her smile with an innocent one. "Hm? What gave you that idea?"
"Hearing you," Ada replies with a chirp of a laugh as she closes the backdoor behind her and makes her way into the garden. She, too, is barefoot, and she holds up her billowing skirts to keep them from getting wet in the grass. Eventually, though, she lets go of them with a pleasant sigh and takes a seat on the ground beside Oz, then flops down on her back to gaze up at the ashen sky with the same bright green eyes as her brother, the same distant, not-quite-there smile that has always enchanted yet unnerved the people around them. "Do you think something is going to happen soon?" she asks softly, reading her brother's mind.
"It always does when it rains," Oz replies. "Even Uncle Oscar is noticing it."
"Really?"
"Mhm. But he won't admit to it. He likes to pretend that it's just our imaginations, but he neglects to mention that he has one, too."
Ada gives a bell-like laugh, her prim hands wandering down to play with the wet blades of grass. "I don't think it's just our imaginations, though. We've never been wrong before."
"Like I said, every time it rains…" Oz smiles with one corner of his mouth and closes his eyes. The rain kisses his eyelids with cool lips. "Something happens…"
Ada gives a dreamy sigh. "I hope it's a good something."
"I think it will be." A light laugh breathes past Oz's lips. "Or maybe not. We'll see."
"Maybe it'll be a bit of both," Ada muses.
"That's always my favorite."
"Mine, too."
The siblings fall silent, both daydreaming and far away. The rain is beginning to pick up, but they don't move from their spots in the grass, letting themselves drift far away on waves of thought until they might as well be washed away into another universe entirely.
::
Gilbert carries his brother as far as the outskirts of town before his legs give out. Luckily, Vincent remains on his back enough to keep from falling off, and despite how sore he is and how difficult it is to move, Gilbert manages to carefully lie Vincent down against the brick wall before finally resting his weary body beside him. "Christ," he pants out, rubbing his aching thighs with the palms of his hands. He winces at the knotted muscles that sting beneath the pressure of his hands. "Fuckin' legs 'bout to fall righ' off."
Vincent rests his head on Gilbert's shoulder with a throaty, wet cough. He whispers out a sad apology into the tattered rag of Gilbert's shirt. He's shivering so hard his bones could very well rattle and leap out of his skin. Gilbert regards him with a worried frown before wrapping his long arms around Vincent's shoulders, letting his brother collapse against him and bury his face into his chest. He can't tell if Vincent is crying or if it's his cold, but he figures if he asked, it might only make it worse if he is in fact crying. He holds Vincent tighter in response, careful not to hurt him. "Oi," he murmurs, "fink about good things, Vince. Like when I gave you yer name. Remember?"
Vincent gives a hard sniff and a small nod. Yes, he's definitely crying. "When we was li'l kids," he says, muffled into Gilbert's chest.
"Tha's right. You was bu' a wee two years. Reckon you wasn't much smaller than you is now."
That pulls the tiniest of laughs out of Vincent, and Gilbert smiles at the sound of it, relieved even as his stomach gives a painful growl and Vincent lets out another cough. To distract them both, he keeps talking, low and soft to keep Vincent calm. "Vincent was the name o' me favorite character, but the name o' the story isself I can't recall for the life o' me. I jus' liked that Vincent character…'ad a golden steed and a full suit o' armor stronger than anyfin', even stronger than the fires o' hell isself…"
Vincent is still shaking, but his sniffling subsides a little, and the edge of hyperventilation that was beginning to touch his breath is easing up.
"All o' God's men, and all the king's men, they knigh'ed the Vincent fellow as an angel by the end o' the story. I remember that, too. I fink I even cried a bit."
Vincent laughs again, this time the sound of it more honest, more alive. "You cried, bruvver?"
"Jus' a bit," Gilbert lies. (He'd cried waterfalls; he'd been so happy for that golden knight that nothing else in the world had mattered, nothing could have hurt him.) "I liked stories. They gave me somefin' else to think on. Like an escape." An escape from our whore mum and our drunk papa that pushed me head into the wall when I asked him to stop callin' you "it", he thinks, the words black and scorching with wrath within him. The only outward hint of such a thought crossing his mind is the faint flash of something violent and hateful that flits across his golden eyes and the slight twitch to his upper lip. Thankfully, Vincent sees none of it.
"Vince," Gilbert asks, staring off into space, "d'you like what I named you?"
Vincent lifts his head to look up at Gilbert. "Iss the name you gave me, Gil."
Gilbert stares blankly at the brick wall ahead. They went from one alley to another. And after this one, another will be waiting for them. Funny how they all look the same no matter how far you carry your dying brother on your back.
"So I love my name," Vincent says, "and I love you."
The rain is beginning to come down harder, but Gilbert scarcely feels it. As he closes his eyes, he envisions a massive wave carrying him away from all of this, washing all the grime and muck of the streets from his body, and with it, cleansing him of every hideous thing he's ever done just to stay alive. The wave clears. He opens his eyes. The same brick wall sits ahead of him. The same alley.
